Mother went on a howling tirade last week after I found her stash of “liquid medicine” in the conservatory, made “Molotov cocktails” and threw them all at the “cat.”

As punishment, Mother is making me fly to Paris to find a wife. According to her, the French make the best wine but only the third-best type of women for marriage, behind industry leaders Germany and the Austro-Hungarian Empire.

I packed light, taking only two servants and a trunk full of beads and trinkets to exchange with the natives. The flight was horrid. Stuck between an elderly British man who smelled of mildew and a young Appalachian boy with buck teeth who hummed Katy Perry songs to himself constantly, I considered slashing my wrists with an emery board. Instead I decided to hire new servants as soon as possible.

On terra Francaise, all the French women I met were very pleasant and accommodating, apart from not wanting to marry me. Marty (my footman) suggested that I offer Euros instead of crowns, which earned him a slap across the mouth. If the Queen’s money is not good enough for these French tarts, then I must hove my caravan eastward, to Germany.

Instead of a bride who constantly smokes Gauloises, I have acquired an infestation of fleas from Paris. I’m blaming Marty.